Archive for December, 2012

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

About 55,000 tourists visit Liechtenstein every year. This blog was viewed about 390,000 times in 2012. If it were Liechtenstein, it would take about 7 years for that many people to see it. This blog had more visits than a small country in Europe!

NOTE: Kind of odd, the report lists the most commented on post as “Speaking of Collard Greens,” but I don’t think that is true. Maybe for a new post, but I had more new comments on a few older posts than on the one listed.

I oft recall the Christmas tree
That bloomed when we were boys;
It seems a mystery to me
How it could hold the toys
That clung in clusters on each limb
Like grapes upon a vine,
While many a colored candle’s glim
On baubles bright would shine.

All through the reeking branches’ rifts
The wayward, wandering wax
Would gurgle over gaudy gifts,
And leave long tallow tracks;
Soft pills of purple paraffine
Would punctuate the hair
Of dolls and make their tresses’ sheen
A polka-dot affair.

The limp wax-drippings, light and dark,
Seeped down without surcease,
Bedecking beasts in Noah’s ark
With rainbow stripes of grease;
And lo a miracle was wrought
When falling candle clots
The litheless little leopard caught
And changed the creature’s spots.

The tainted touch of tinted grease,
Made a kaleidoscope
Of many a toy; the lamb’s white fleece
Was flecked like mottled soap;
The dark-bay horse was dappled blue,
The elephant turned green,
And other beasts assumed a hue
That ne’er before was seen.

Now distance lends enchantment to
Those lights of long ago,
And oft we fancy that they won
Our hearts with radiant glow;
The Yuletide tree when we were young
Seems fairer far than all
The boyhood pictures that are hung
On memory’s wide wall.

An exchange paper says: “We have always considered it an unerring sign of innate vulgarity, when we hear ladies take particular pains to impress us with an idea of their ignorance of all domestic matters, save sewing lace, or weaving a net to enclose their delicate hands. — Ladies by some curious kind of hocus pocus, have got it into their heads that the best way to catch a husband is to show him how profoundly capable they are of doing nothing for his comfort. Frightening a piano into fits, or murdering the King’s French, may be good bait for some kinds of fish, but they must be of that kind usually found in shallow water. The surest way to secure a good husband, is to cultivate those accomplishments which make a good wife.

Appleton, Wis. – In sub-zero weather, firemen from Appleton and five surrounding cities fought a fire at the corner of College avenue and Oneida street, which, for a time, threatened the entire business section of this city. While it was possible to prevent spread of the flames, the structure attacked was completely destroyed, with a loss estimated at a quarter of a million dollars.

The property involved was a brick building, directly at the corner with a frontage of sixty feet, on College avenue, and 100 feet deep along Oneida street. It was occupied by two stores and several offices. It was owned by Irving Zuelke and his loss on the building alone is placed at $65,000. All that remains standing is the front wall, and that will have to be razed…. [more at the link above.]

The Daily Northwestern, Oshkosh, WI 26 Jan 1928

* * *

Before the fire:

* * *

SEVERAL thousand people, many of whom came from cities as far as 100 miles away, visited Irving Zuelke’s new music store at the corner of Oneida -st and College-ave during his formal opening. The store is one of the finest of its kind in the middlewest, comparing very favorably with the best in the largest cities.

Enormous changes have been made in the interior of the building, as well as in the exterior. Every possible convenience for customers and for the business has been installed. All the rooms are beautifully appointed and arrangements were made for the fastest service for customers.

The main floor, used largely for general display purposes, is beautifully finished and well arranged. Highly decorative lighting fixtures have been installed and soft carpets add to the elegance of the room.

The display windows on two sides of the building are attracting a great deal of attention. They are spacious and so arranged that they can be decorated with the maximum effectiveness. Wax figures are used effectively in decorating the windows.

The piano room, radio room and phonograph room are on the third floor and a recital hall also has been fitted up on that floor.

The sales rooms are well equipped for demonstration and display purposes. Nothing that would add to attractiveness or to comfort has been omitted.

Suggested by the following paragraph, taken from the Argus of October 7

“There is a place in the Mississippi where so many vessels have been wrecked, that it is called the ‘Grave Yard.'”

A ‘Grave Yard’ in the wat’ry deep — a home beneath the wave,
For they, the mourned, the loved, the lost, the youthful and the brave!
Oh, loving hearts have broken, and eye grown dim with weeping,
For the thousand forms that lie, in that unseen ‘Grave Yard’ sleeping.

A ‘Grave Yard’ — but above the dead selection sheds no tear,
No mourner’s footsteps tread the ground, no sighs are echoed here.
Affection’s hand can never bring, at pensive evening hour,
And place o’er some reposing form, love’ purest gilt — a flower.

Nor can it rear, with pious care, the costly marble stone,
In memory of the faded form, closed eye, and silent tongue;
Ah no! the tears that fall for these, can no green grave bedew,
And memory must erect her shrine, in the warm hearts of the true.

Oh! the sea may boast its sparkling gems and its snow-white coral caves,
And the pure and precious pearl that lies, far down in its deep, blue waves;
But thou, majestic river, what wealth thy waters hide —
The heart’s most valued treasure, the bosom’s dearest pride!

One common fate, one common home, is found by youth and age;
One common resting place they share, the infant and the sage,
The same proud wave, perchance, that laid the grey-haired sire low,
Has dashed from childhood’s downy cheek, its warm, bewitching glow.

A wave, a single, crystal wave, has levelled manhood’s pride,
And frozen in its chill embraces, the life blood of the bride;
A wave has bowed the maiden’s form, and one tumultuous billow,
Has been to many a bright, young head, its last and coldest pillow.

See, bounding o’er the “Grave Yard,’ a vessel in its might,
It skims the water’s surface, like a sea-bird in its flight.
Oh many a long-lamented one those waters have in keeping —
Sail slowly o’er the hallowed spot, where the silent dead are sleeping.

It is an awful thought that the gay, the living tread
Above the wave-walled sepulchre of the calm and quiet dead!
It is a solemn thought, that should one more fast sweep by,
Far down in that dark and dread abode, those breathing forms must lie.

Sail slowly — and let every soul, that those waves on their bosom bear,
With chastened spirits lift the heart to heaven in fervent prayer,
That He who holds f— human life, in his own holy keeping,
May save them from the wat’ry waste, where the silent dead are sleeping.

One hundred and thirty years ago today, on December 14, 1799, George Washington died.

On Dec. 12 of that year, Washington was exposed in the saddle for several hours to cold and snow, and attacked with acute laryngitis, for which he was repeatedly bled.

Washington sunk rapidly and died two days later. His last words were characteristic. He said: “I die hard, but I am not afraid to go. I believed from my first attack that I should not survive it. My breath cannot last long.” A little later he said: “I feel myself going. I thank you for your attentions; but I pray you to take no more trouble about me. Let me go off quietly. I cannot last long.”

After some instructions to his secretary about his burial, he became easier, felt for his own pulses, and died without a struggle.

Dear Santa Claus: My coal bill
Is ninety twenty-four,
If you will take it off my hands,
I shall not ask for more.
I don’t care how you fix it,
Just so you let me out —
O, that would be a Christmas gift
Beyond a doubt.

Dear Santa Claus, my grocer
Wants money very badly,
If you will see him when you come,
I’ll leave it to you gladly.
I don’t care what you give him,
Just so the trade is fair —
O, that would be a Christmas gift
Beyond compare.

Dear Santa Claus, my butcher —
But do I grow prolix?
What say I send them all to you,
With leave for you to fix?
I don’t care how you fix them,
So long as they are paid —
But I expect too much of you,
I am afraid.